ual? What does that mean?
Holy fuck! It’s Rule no 6, the damned beauty salon.
All the waxing nonsense . . . shit!
This is where he brought all his subs? Maybe Leila,
too? What the hell am I supposed to make of this?
too? What the hell am I supposed to make of this?
“Miss Steele will tell you what she wants.”
I glare at him. He’s introducing the Rules by stealth.
I’ve agreed to the personal trainer—and now this?
“Why here?” I hiss at him.
“I own this place, and three more like it.”
“You own it?” I gasp in surprise. Well, that’s
unexpected.
“Yes. It’s a sideline. Anyway—whatever you want,
you can ha一ve it here, on the house. All sorts of massage;
Swedish, shiatsu, hot stones, reflexology, seaweed baths,
facials, all that stuff that women like—everything. It’s done
here.” He wa一ves his long-fingered hand dismissively.
“Waxing?”
He laughs. “Yes waxing, too. Everywhere,” he
whispers conspiratorially, enjoying my discomfort.
I blush and glance at Greta, who is looking at me
expectantly.
“I’d like a haircut, please.”
“Certainly, Miss Steele.”
“Certainly, Miss Steele.”
Greta is all pink lipstick and bustling Germanic
efficiency as she checks her computer screen.
“Franco is free in five minutes.”
“Franco’s fine,” says Christian reassuringly to me. I am
trying to wrap my head around this. Christian Grey CEO
owns a chain of beauty salons.
I peek up at him, and suddenly he blanches—
something, or someone, has caught his eye. I turn to see
where he’s looking, and right at the back of the salon a
sleek platinum blonde has appeared, closing a door behind
her and speaking to one of the hair stylists.
Platinum Blonde is tall, tanned, lovely, and in her late
thirties or forties—it’s difficult to tell. She’s wearing the
same uniform as Greta, but in black. She looks stunning.
Her hair shines like a halo, cut in sharp bob. As she turns,
she catches sight of Christian and smiles at him, a dazzling
smile of warm recognition.
“Excuse me,” Christian mumbles hurriedly.
He strides quickly th
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